Sweet Nothings
by Aiiro Hart
Summary: I don't really remember when exactly I started to hate sweet things. One day, my taste buds were just repulsed by them and I steered clear from the annoying feeling sugar gave me...Ah, I feel like I'm about to cry. I lost her. That thought kept repeating itself in my head...PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! YOU MIGHT FIND SASUKE TO BE A LITTLE OOC, BUT PLEASE ENJOY! :D


**Hello Everyone! Because Mother's Day is literally around the corner, I got inspired and wrote this little one shot. I hope you enjoy it! Read and Review Please! And I wish for a happy mother's day for all you beautifully great mothers out there!**

I don't really remember when exactly I started to hate sweet things. One day, my taste buds were just repulsed by them and I steered clear from the annoying feeling sugar gave me. I used to make lots of dango with my mother, I remember. Every Friday after school, she would greet my by the door and somehow convince me to help her make dango or cookies or any other nonsense she could come up with. I guess it was all just an attempt to spend time with me without it involving martial arts or violence. Mother was always a gentle person, after all. I would look at her, glare as much as I could, but, as much as I hated it, I always ended up giving into her imploring eyes.

It was worth it every time; I knew mother was lonely, being alone all day, everyday, in that big, empty house. When I got home, I pretended not to notice, but I always saw how quickly she changed her desolate look for one of elation the moment she heard the door slide open. Sometimes she faked It, though.

She would spend the day thinking about something that upset her, not really having anyone to talk to about it. It would take her a bit of time to get genuinely enthusiastic. Other times, though, she would be so excited that she would run out of the house as soon as she felt my chakra signature and wave from a distance. She would scream my name and say I came home just in time to try a new recipe with her. Yeah, it was really worth the hassle to see my mother smile like that. I wonder if, in times like that, she was also forcing herself. My mother was indeed a gentle person, and I knew she constantly used that gentleness in her words to shelter me from the hurtful things she had to hold back on her own.

Seeing that every day, I always felt how much I truly loved my mother. More than anyone or anything. And even if I didn't like cooking, I'd do it a million times if it would mean to see her smile like that and forget what haunts her. I had always thought like that. But now, seeing as she is no longer here, what will I do when I get home? I can hear the townspeople's whispers, I can hear the gossip they don't even bother to dissimulate, and I know I must look pitiful in other's eyes. What is a poor boy, left without any kind of family because of genocide, going to do with his life? I bet they think I'm miserable, I bet they think I'm pathetic and pitiful. I bet, more than anything, that what they are truly doing is mocking me.

But I'm **not** lonely.

I'm **not** sad.

I'm not **lonely**.

I'm not **sad**.

This mantra lulls me to sleep every night. I'm thinking that if I pretend to feel a certain way to fool others, maybe one day I will genuinely feel it; or maybe one day I will be able to fool myself too.

Ah, I feel like I'm about to cry. I think that might just be how my expression looks too, I can't seem to fight back the frown that's crawling its way to my face. _Stop. Don't look at me like that. I don't need your pity. I need help. It hurts. I feel like I should have joined them in death. What do I do?_ These words I'll never say, they're piling up in bygone days. I haven't cried in a while, is that why I can't seem to hold myself back? If I run, run as fast as my legs can carry me, can I put a distance between these feelings and myself? Will I be able to leave them behind? I think that, at this moment, it's worth a try. _Run. Run. Keep running. Don't stop. Don't shed a single tear, and just keep running._

I remember I was crying, though, while eating the last piece of dango I ever would. It was disgusting, of course. The moment the treat touched my tongue, I was mentally writing in discomfort. My throat was dry and coarse when I swallowed it, and somehow it all became tasteless. This dango...it would definitely be the last time I eat it. I never even finished it, because what good is it to eat sweets if I wasn't sharing them with her? That tastelessness in my tongue, that pain in my throat...It felt like I was saying goodbye.

I lost her

I _lost_ her

I lost **her**.

That thought kept repeating itself in my head as the disgusting sweetness went down my constricting throat. I will never hear her call my name again, I will never see her smile at me again. I will no longer have someone at home who waits for me, worries for me, or is happy that I'm there. Those sweet nothings I used to make with her, I'll never make them again. I'll never again be showered with praise when I surpass her cooking, I will never again be told that I am important and special, or that I was missed, or that I was loved unconditionally. I only cried harder after that, not really sure if it was due to the repulsiveness of the sweets or the idea in itself that I lost the most important person in my life; what I loved the most was taken from me, in the blink of an eye, the same day she proudly presented me with her new cake recipe, the same day she lovingly placed a portion in my bento; I lost her the same day I promised I'd be back early to learn how to make it for her upcoming birthday.

Mother...

Dearest mother...

I hope you forgive me...

I hope you are not disappointed in me...

But...

I don't think I'll ever be the same again.


End file.
